The morning of Stones were shrouded in a thin, cold, and damp fog, the aroma of wet earth infiltrating their breaths. After the judgment day of the Titans, the sky remained dim, and the roots of Genesis trembled as if holding the secrets of the lost travelers. The Titans stood to the north, their giant bodies half-buried in the earth and roots, their faces tense, indicating uncertainty. The deities of Asgard lined up to the east, with Odin leading, his one eye watchful and his brow furrowed, as if sensing the vibrations beneath his feet. To the south, humans, spirits, and remnants of knights waited anxiously, their sighs mingling with the wind, forming a symphony of sorrow and hope.

  In the midst of the battlefield, Fitran and Rinoa held hands, their fingers tightly interlocked, creating warmth amidst the biting cold. They observed a world now truly at a balance between hope and destruction, their hearts racing with fear of what might happen next. In their minds, hope blossomed while being overshadowed by the fear of the encroaching darkness, as if the fog itself were a living entity.

  Odin stepped forward, his spear Gungnir thrust into the ground with a force that shook the earth. His voice echoed among the roots and fog, each word like the thunder that resonated against their skin: “The Tree of Genesis is the crossroads. A new world can only be born when the old riddles are solved. Yet, neither deity nor Titan can move forward without answers,” he said, his eyes shining sharp like stars in the night.

  Zeus frowned, his brow creased, and Hyperion's hand clenched tightly, showing deep dissatisfaction. Kronos gazed at Odin with curiosity, his interest seemingly ignited. In his heart, he wondered if they would find the answers needed to avoid the approaching darkness. Odin continued, his voice growing deeper and more mysterious: “There is an ancient riddle planted in the roots of Yggdrasil, long before Genesis was born, long before all of this happened. Only those who can answer will be given the key to the future.”

  The voice of the fog penetrated every soul—a voice whose origin was unrecognizable, whether from the tree, the roots, or the writers of the world, tickling their ears like whispers from another realm:

  “I am born from destruction, I grow from wounds, I bind the world in one name, Yet I cannot be named. Who am I?”

  The Titans exchanged glances, some recalling the old days when they themselves lost their names. A shadow of deep sorrow reflected on their faces, as if each silence added weight to the burdens of their past. The deities of Asgard whispered, trying to guess the answer—“Time? Fate? Spiral? Light?” Their voices were muffled in the thick aura present, as if even the wind hesitated to carry their words away.

  Fitran closed his eyes, his body still weak but his mind racing: “If everything that has a name will end, and everything that cannot be named is the beginning… then is the key not meaning, but will?” His labored breath created a thin mist in the air, while his heartbeat synchronized with the whispering voice of the fog, demanding answers from the depths of his heart.

  Rinoa looked at Fitran, a soft whisper in her ear: “Isn’t the answer… the wound itself? Or the hope that is born from the wound?” She felt how cold the air was, as if enveloping them in a suffocating embrace, when their gazes met, her face radiating warm hope amidst the darkness. Every contour of her face reflected tension, her eyes shining with a light that sought to dispel the shadows of fear, as if she herself struggled to understand the meaning of the words she spoke.

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  The roots of Genesis crept, wrapping around the feet of Fitran, Odin, and Kronos, like a great serpent binding them in an invisible magical blanket. The aroma of wet earth and greenery enveloped the air, creating an atmosphere thick with tension. The magical aura grew denser, the atmosphere pressing down. Anyone who answered incorrectly would be absorbed by the tree, becoming part of the roots—a myth that had existed since the dawn of creation, a tale that held the secrets of the entire universe.

  Rhea, the Mother Earth, whispered in a soft yet authoritative voice, “You know the answer, Fitran. But the world must choose together. No new era is born alone.” Her eyes sparkled with anxiety, as if capturing a shadow of a grim future if the wrong choice was made.

  Fitran stepped forward, his body firm and his hand clenched with burning determination. His voice was hoarse yet deep, transcending the doubts gnawing at his heart: “I do not know if I am right, but… I believe the answer is the nameless spiral. A wound that continues to spin, creating new meaning each time it is hurt, yet never given a definite name.” Each word he spoke felt like a mantra, radiating hope amidst confusion. He felt his heartbeat quickening, echoing among the softly rustling roots, like the sound of fingertips touching the surface of water.

  The roots of Genesis glowed, a soft yet captivating light, and the fog thinned, leaving a cold trace on their skin. The voice of the roots echoed again, transcending space and time, “Your answer… is not a word, but a will. Therefore, let the new world grow not from names, but from wounds, hope, and an unfinished spiral.” Each note seemed to create vibrations within the souls of the listeners, making them feel the call to explore the meaning of everything that had long been buried.

  The Titans bowed their heads, their expressions filled with tension and hope, their bodies beginning to merge with the roots—not disappearing, but transforming into the foundation of a new world. The texture of gravel and dust felt beneath their palms, reminding them of their origins. The deities of Asgard also lowered their weapons, uncertainty in their eyes, standing alongside humans and spirits, waiting for what would emerge from the Tree of Genesis. In Fitran's mind, hope and anxiety intertwined, creating a vision of a new world never before imagined.

  As the light of the roots grew brighter, an odd whisper was heard beyond the world—a long song unknown to the Titans, deities, or humans. The sound vibrated through the Stones, awakening something deep within the earth: The song was The Song That Awakens Tiamat.

  However, not all sounded beautiful. The vibrations also carried a sharp aroma from the wet earth, perhaps remnants of buried fears and hopes. That night was colored with deep purple and dark blue, occasionally revealing the glimmer of the hanging branches of the tree, as if witnessing this moment closely.

  The eyes of the Titans widened, their necks tense, like a natural choir responding to the call. Their hands clenched, rocky palms feeling heavy, holding back the doubts that surged. From the corner of his eye, Zarek, the usually calm Titan, displayed a rare uncertainty; his large fingers trembled, trying to reach for the mystical light, as if yearning for answers from the echoing song. He thought, Are we ready for what is to come?

  The world of Stones trembled, its earth pulsing as if alive, and everyone held their breath, waiting for a new answer from a world that had chosen not only names but wounds, spirals, and hope.

  As the sound flowed, everything felt as if trapped in time. A chill crept along their skin, while the rumbling sound attacked not only their ears but also their souls, weaving through thousands of thoughts and emotions. It was as if the Tree of Genesis itself was speaking, calling heroes and monsters into a story that would be poured into a new mythology.